


Asphyxiation

by nieded



Series: Asphyxiation Verse [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nieded/pseuds/nieded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson learns his pre-history, gets naked, and jumps off a cliff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asphyxiation

**Author's Note:**

> An old, old work. I wrote this way back when the House fandom was young. After recently getting an AO3 account, I'm moving it over here, even if it's long out of date!

James can picture it near-perfectly in his mind, the summer of 1980 when he had turned eleven. The memories hold fast in his conscience like projector slides, distorted and blurry around the edges and worn like the fabric of his favorite blue jeans. It landmarks a time when he remained prepubescent – before things fell apart: just one perfect vacation on the hot sand and warm waters. He didn’t realize it then (but fervently holds onto the fact now) that 1980 captured the perfect-family moment. Back then it just signified the simple joy of being at the beach for the first and only time as a kid.

Even though his mother first suggested the vacation, Mara Wilson (formerly Mara Anne Jordan) fretted. She grew up in Maine on the coast of the Atlantic. Her small home stood on a cliff towering over the icy waters where she and her brothers spent their childhood. Their parents warned them with frightening stories to never go near the edge of the water without supervision, lest they should be swallowed whole by the ocean. During her childhood Mara had seen and tasted the illustrious, salty waters but also had heard her fair share of horror stories. It came naturally then that she hesitated letting her own boys splash in the warm crowded waters of Atlantic City, New Jersey and had second doubts about their trip, but James desired the sunny skies and white beaches more than postcards and pictures could comfort.

His parents relented after much persuasion (begging) from him and his brothers, Ben and Isaac. They could hardly sit still in their desks, anticipating summer and its joys. Each night they’d count down the days left until their vacation, ticking off another square on the calendar as they laughed and quipped back and forth excitedly. Mara watched with amusement, but also with hidden fear that maybe a disaster would come from it.

James can look back now and admit that they were not the wealthiest family. Clothes and shoes seemed too expensive year to year as each boy kept growing, kept expanding their interests and getting closer to college. He knows now that his mother and father went through a hard time, raising three teenage boys all right in a row and wonders where exactly they even got the money to afford their small vacation to the shore. However, on one hot summer day, for the briefest moments, Mara put these cares aside as the sight before her disillusioned her, made her believe that everything would be okay. Her three young boys, still preteens, stood with their limbs tangled together as the heat sizzled with a sense of balance and kinship that hormones and the approach of junior high had buried. She sucked in a slow breath and exhaled, feeling her vexation evaporate off her shoulders into the high sun.

What James remembers most are those moments with his brothers that the past nor future memories will never match up to. He flashes back to the color of New Jersey’s ultramarine water, the grit of sand between his toes and in his swim trunks, and the color of his mother’s umbrella (periwinkle). But more than anything, he remembers the sand castle they built, and how it stood at one hundred feet tall, how they fought dragons and saved the princess and Isaac got the girl and became king.

His memories are tainted, and the ghost of a smile across his lips dies quickly when thinks back. He can’t recall that week on the coast without thinking about Isaac. Isaac – how he disappeared for three weeks four summers afterward, how James stayed awake each night his brother hadn’t returned home. Isaac – how he dropped out of school, disappeared for longer and longer lengths of time until he disappeared altogether

James wishes they could have stayed at the beach where things stood still like a perfectly carved statue, chiseled from an indestructible diamond that would surely last forever. There remains a mystery in the calm rush-rush of the waves that bound them all together and soothed their adolescence. He wants that feeling to come back, that pure, untainted joy for just once in his adulthood. As he grips the 1980s Atlantic City postcard, he worries the edges, closes his eyes and wishes.

\----

On Monday he feels fine (enough) when he calls Cuddy with a feigned rasp in his throat and a complaint of a high fever. He imagines her sitting at her desk with a look of sympathy – just feeling his scathing, phony temperature through the phone lines when he coughs petulantly and lies, “My fever’s up to one-oh-one. I just... can’t... make it in today. I’m really sorry, Lisa.”

“What am I supposed to do?” she asks, layers of worry and frustration coating her voice. He pictures her eyes flickering up to look at the grandfather clock in the corner of her office in muted desperation. “You’re the third doctor to call in today.”

He kicks the covers down off his legs and cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear. “If it helps,” he coughs, “I’ve gotten all my paperwork in. All I really have to do today is clinic duty and meet with some families,” he assures.

Lisa’s lips turn downwards. “I wouldn’t be so upset about it...”

“... but it’s that time of the year.”

“Exactly. You owe me, James.”

He smiles briefly and grabs an envelope from the nightstand next to his bed. “Don’t worry about it. Make House do my hours or something; God knows I’ve made up plenty of his.”

Lisa issues a soft scoff while glancing at her wrist watch briefly. “House has thousands of his own hours to make up.”

“Ohh, not if they’ve been pilfered off to his fellows.” Nonchalantly, James flips open the envelope and pulls out a plane ticket, fumbling with the paper between his fingers.

“He did _what_?”

“For _two weeks_ ,” he answers calmly. He adds sarcastically, “I wonder how he managed that. Anyway, I’m sure he has plenty of free time.”

“Fine, House can do your hours,” Cuddy relents, and James adds an extra sniffle to emphasize just how sick he is.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“But if he blows something up –”

“It’s my fault; I know.”

James hangs up the phone and lets out a deep breath of relief. His fingers flex back and forth, working the blood to each of his limbs before standing up. A little flutter of guilt courses through him for lying, but he justifies it. He’s dedicated himself to the hospital and hasn’t missed a day in two year, and although he may feel fine physically, he knows deserves a nice long rest (sleep).

He glances down at the plane ticket again and tucks it back carefully into the envelope. It lands on the end of his mattress after tossing it, and he haphazardly stumbles into the bathroom.

That night a dream plagues him: the Atlantic Ocean, salty and bitter. Isaac. Ben. Freedom. It calls him back to the sea – a time when life looked peaceful and complete.

His mother told him Maine stands perfectly still in the winter -- a frigid, icy picture so intensely beautiful. She grew up there and always used to talk about taking him and his brothers to visit back to the ocean. But after Isaac started having troubles they never made it up there as a family, and James regrets it. Wants it, decides now is the perfect chance to travel there before time runs out. He knows what they say about the water: it never freezes but stays so icy cold that a person’s veins turn solid. Deep within the ocean’s depths, the water’s never warm.

Hypothermia. He lists the symptoms in his head: first comes the shivering and the loss of coordination, then confusion will set in, his muscles will stiffen, and he’ll hallucinate. Unconsciousness. He’ll feel nothing at all.

It makes him wonder what the brackish water tastes like, what it’d feel like in his eyes and mouth and skin, flowing between his fingers... Would the last thing he’d see flash before his eyes be a picture film of his entire life (his father, Ben, Isaac, and all his wives), or simply the silver tail of a fish darting past?

He leaves the dishes in the sink and the TV on. He doesn’t plan to come back.

\----

It looks exactly how he pictured it: balmy and icy. Snow decorates the shoreline but doesn’t touch the ocean waters, and the frothy whitecaps look just as chilly. The entire scene looks promising to James. He draws in one final breath and runs.

At first, the water pricks his skin like little daggers, but he forces his feet to push forward through the swift waves. His shoe laces pull untied and the soft cotton fabric of his shirt clings to his skin. When his head dunks beneath the surface of the water, his entire body sinks.

For a moment, he flails and kicks in a panic, but his mind slows and focuses after a few moments of pain-free bliss. _This isn’t right_ , he thinks because his body should be fighting to stay above the surface. He should at least be _floating_. But instead he sinks lower and lower and lower and the chilliness fades until warm heat floods through his body. His lungs grow tight from the lack of oxygen and involuntarily, his mouth opens and sucks in a gulp of water. But instead of the choking, drowning, suffocation, he takes slow and gentle breaths as his entire body numbs and floats, water filling his lungs to only flow back out like air.

The tips of his fingers tingle with heat, and the salty water loses its sour taste. Instead, it tastes sweet like clover honey and his grandmother’s jam. _Salt_ , she had always said, _was the special ingredient_. He looks up to the surface and can barely see the reflection of sunlight as he sinks deeper into the bottomless sea, thinking. Just thinking.

 _How serene_ , his mind repeats, over and over. It can’t seem to get passed this thought. He doesn’t question the unrealistic turn of events, but only how beautiful it looks. His instinct tells him to float and breathe and stay underwater, some sort of hidden reflex he never knew he had even though a distant part of his mind panics, _this isn’t right!_ Nothing could be better.

The small voice inside of him bubbles to the surface and whispers, _you should be dead_. His eyes flicker to the fading surface. _You’re in the afterlife_ , it murmurs – just a small wave in a big ocean – but part of him listens and wants to be alive just to feel this sweet, sweet feeling. So his fingers flex through the water, his arms and legs stroking upwards desperately to touch the surface and the affirmation that he is indeed alive (and, yes yes yes, he can breathe. _Breathe_.)

When he breaks the surface, the condensation freezes on his eyelashes and briefly he fears drowning in the air. Nothing will ever be the same again.

\----

He didn’t bring anything with him to Maine. He hadn’t anticipated leaving. (He hadn’t anticipated living.) He blinks once, twice; it feels as if everyone can see right through the touristy, overpriced Portland sweatshirt he bought to replace his wrecked clothes in the airport although hardly anyone else is flying red eye. He thinks they know.

When he arrives back in Princeton at four in the morning he hails a cab. The backseat smells like vomit and piss, and the windows are smudged with grease. A shiver runs down his spine when he thinks about what people would say if they found out. He’s sure the cab driver sees too.

House would tell him paranoia is an unattractive quality – _too much marijuana_ , he quips in his head – but he doesn’t plan on telling House at all.

His chest rattles when he sucks in air (as if he just can’t get enough).

\----

His eyes flash open, body rigid in his bed. He doesn’t hear a thing ( _the water, where’s the water?_ ), and for a moment he forgets that he ever left the ocean.

Slowly, the world settles back around him and he can hear the radio blaring in his ear, pain rampaging through his brain from the deafening sound. The nerves in his fingers and toes light up, burning. Everything shines blindingly. _Monday_ , he tells himself, focusing on the workday (on the weekend, on Maine, on Isaac, on the ocean, on _his past_ ), as he pushes himself out of bed. He stumbles stiffly towards the bathroom. The mirror reveals deep bags sagging beneath his eyes, lines on his forehead that appear to have creased overnight. He smiles carefully in the mirror, as if his grin will break if it spreads too wide, and hopes to God his charm will cover the look of panic on his face.

At nine that morning, Wilson strolls into the Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, smiles slightly at the nurses and walks straight into House on his way to the elevator. He tries to keep a stiff composure, smiling nonchalantly and replying at every right moment with a sarcastic, bitter retort, but has the twisting feeling inside that House can see straight through him.

Work stays the same. His patients die (and how he wishes...). His fingers shake uncontrollably at the sight of water.

Worst of all, Wilson’s certain House knows.

“Would you quit following me around?” Wilson demands, stopping in the middle of the hallway with his torso twisted around to face House. He squares his shoulders and rests his hands on his hips. “Why are you doing this?”

House’s nonchalant shrug answers little. The oncologist restrains an eye roll while indignantly pointing a finger in House’s direction. “I didn’t steal your gameboy, I haven’t slept with Cuddy, and I didn’t erase your Winnie the Pooh or whatever the hell it is you watch on TiVo so... Why the hell are you stalking me today?”

“Would it work out better for your schedule if I stalked you tomorrow?” House asks bitingly, par for the course.

A flood of relief hits Wilson when he catches the humor in his friend’s voice. The corners of his lips twitch slightly, but House can’t tell if it’s out of amusement or aggravation. He waits for Wilson to start walking again before following, his _scuff tapscuff tapscuff_ falling behind the other man’s fast paced trot.

House knows something has changed from the tenseness in Wilson’s shoulder and the exhausted look in his eyes – the short, quick breaths and distracted look he gets every time they pass the fountain near the waiting room on level two.

“How was your vacation?” he shouts down the corridor as the distance grows between the two of them.

Wilson stops and House can see his shoulders tense up. He wants to say, ‘What vacation? I was sick,’ but knows House will see right through his lie. Instead, he answers, “It was fine,” and his voice sounds tight and strained – different.

House prods a little farther. “You didn’t tell me you were going on vacation. Did you get married again? I hear Vegas is wonderful this time of year.”

“Yes, the buds on the showgirls – I mean _trees_ – are just blossoming in winter.” Wilson can hear the strain in his own voice, and slowly the place empties except for a few lingering nurses.

House closes the distance between the two of them until he stands at Wilson’s side. “You know, vacation is used for relaxation. You look like you’ve stuck your head down a toilet for a week.”

“Thanks, because I’d be able to breathe or something,” Wilson snorts, a lock of hair flitting upwards briefly before settling back down on his forehead. He tries not to think about the irony and instead says, “I didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t. But your apartment does,” House continues. “You can’t just leave without watering your plants. They died. I cried. The funeral was lovely.”

“You... broke into my apartment?”

“I tried to save them,” House shrugs, “but I think I just drowned them instead.”

“You _killed_ my plants?” Wilson squawks in disbelief, eyebrows furrowing together. He hadn’t even noticed them when he came home, but pretends to be frustrated. This conversation he can do; being mad at House is second (third) nature. The few remaining spectators scatter past until they stand alone in the hallway.

“Only two,” House justifies.

“I only had two.”

“Oh. Oops.”

Wilson grimaces before pinching his nose and looking skyward, as if God will free him from House at any second. “Let me get this straight. You broke into my apartment, killed my plants, are stalking me, and you _need_ to ask me why I took a vacation?”

“I’m not stupid. Everybody needs a vacation, even oncology know-it-alls, but you took a vacation without telling anybody, left your plants to die, and your apartment a pigsty. Were you not planning to come back?”

Wilson’s entire body stiffens as his face contorts in a valiant struggle to keep a normal face. “Of course I was planning to come back,” he lies.

“You left your toothbrush.”

“I bought a new one. You’re supposed to change it every two months,” he quips. “Not every two years. Surprise, I know.”

House ignores him and continues on. “You had no food left in your cupboards.”

“You went through my cupboards?” Wilson’s hands fly back to his hips as he sets his jaw.

House rolls his eyes. “Do I need justifying? A long day’s work of snooping through your apartment entitles me to food. And that’s beside the point. Your bills were a week overdue.”

“I can’t believe you! Can’t I... just... _leave_ every now and then?”

“You didn’t even take extra clothes with you!”

“How the hell would you know?” Wilson spits dramatically and his cheeks blotch in anger, frustration, and House sees, even a little bit of guilt.

“I _know you_. When you anticipate getting wasted at my house you bring your entire suitcase. The damn thing was still in the closet, buried under a layer of dust!” House shouts, slamming the butt of his cane on the ground.

Wilson squeezes his eyes shut momentarily before searching around the deserted corridor for an outlet. “Can we not do this now?” he asks, not quite meeting House’s eyes.

“No. You’ll just... run again, and you know me. I hate running,” House replies, adding an ill-attempted jab to lighten the conversation while jousting his cane.

“For all the times I needed you to listen, you pick the time I wish you wouldn’t. Great,” Wilson scoffs, looking for a distraction. “No, I’m not doing this now. Go... play your gameboy or something.”

House grimaces, admitting temporary defeat. “I can’t. I really don’t know where it is. Are you sure you didn’t steal it? Thief.”

He wins a small grin from Wilson. “Look, whatever you think happened, didn’t. I’m an adult, and I definitely am more mature than you are. I think I can take care of myself.”

House sighs, “Fine. So that’s a no on the sex with Cuddy too?”

This time Wilson gives a real smile and his shoulders shrug slightly as he lets out a shaky laugh. “I knew this was really about her. I saw right through you.”

“Oh, gol-lee you’re so smart, Wilson. But I have to ask, did she like Vegas as much as you did?”

“Oh, do _not_ go there...”

Laughter ricochets off the sanitized walls as they separate, the distance growing between them directly related to the relief coursing through Wilson’s veins. He wonders how long he can put off a confrontation – with House and with himself.

\----

House shows up at Wilson’s door with a twenty-four pack.

“Will you talk now?”

“Wha –”

\----

Behind his eyelids flash pictures of rippling waves and the sandy ocean bottom. When he blinks, when he sighs, when he sleeps, the ocean waits for him. It calls gently, in a soothing whisper that oddly reminds him of his brother’s bedtime stories. Somewhere in the distance, Isaac murmurs:

 _Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears._  
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.  
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,  
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.

He dreams about the cool water circulating around him in the silent, bottomless oasis, the hues of blue, the siren’s song of death and impending doom that sings like a Sunday afternoon. It calms and pacifies him under a deep, unconscious spell. He can remember every moment of being in the salty sea, the sweetness and warmth that flooded through his veins – how suddenly he could breathe more than he ever could before.

He wakes in a panic, chest tight, lungs sucking in strangled, desperate gasps of oxygen, and it takes him several minutes to realize he won’t asphyxiate in the air. He wonders what that means, but at the same time fears analyzing it. Instead, he squeezes his eyes tightly shut in a futile attempt to grasp what he lost, but all he sees is darkness and not the rolling ocean tide.

\----

Everything hurts.

The whole world blurs and whirs together. He hears muffled screams but swears he’s only dreaming.

When he looks up, he can see a fuzzy outline of Greg, can make out the definite shape of his head and shoulders but not his nose nor mouth. Maybe Greg’s the one screaming ( _Why? Why? So peaceful_ ), but James can’t tell. His head lolls back and his eyes drift lazily shut.

And then:

Swiftly, two tough hands scrape his shoulders and heave him upwards. The entire place spins (neurons firing) and he can’t breathe (he’s drowning) and he’s soaking wet (comfortable) and House is screaming and hisearsare _bleeding_ and –

He groans and squints in the harsh fluorescent light. “What? House... I was fucking _asleep._ ”

“Jesus,” Greg mutters, letting go of James’ shoulders.

His body sags back into the bathtub as he finally recognizes his surroundings. He looks around and squints at the stark white bathroom walls and his naked white legs. “What the hell am I doing in the bathtub?” he grunts – definitely still drunk.

“Fuck if I know,” House answers. He tries to remain tough, but a sigh of relief coats his voice. “You said... You said something about going to piss and... I waited for an _a half an hour_... and hell...” House slurs his words, unable to make complete sentences. His eyes look hazy as one hand drops into the bathwater to splash James in the face. “You fucking fell asleep under water. I thought you were drowning. _Jesus._ ”

Instantly, James sobers (his hands are shaking). “I did _what_?”

“You weren’t _moving_. I thought you were _dead_. What the hell happened to you? _I’m_ the irresponsible, suicidal idiot, _remember?!_ ”

“When we’re both sober, we need to talk.”

“Fuck,” House groans. “Tell me now so I can forget tomorrow.”

James sighs and leans back against bathtub. “Gee, thanks. Just... Go... sleep or something.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do? I’m not going to leave you alone. I know I’m reckless, but I’m not just going to let you fucking...! _Jesus!_ ”

James sinks lower into the lukewarm water, eyes closing and opening slowly in a feeble attempt to stay awake. “You’re drunk, House.” He knows he’s drunk if he’s admitting to his recklessness. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Greg leans against the tub and belches violently, his moment of clarity fleeting as he folds back into his drunken stupor. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. His eyes glaze over and his grip slackens on the edge of the tub. “I’m just... I think I’m... just... dru –”

James watches his friend’s head hit the bathmat with a soft _thud_. His head throbs and his neck cramped up from leaning awkwardly against the edge of the bathtub. He pushes aside his fears before dunking under the water – relinquishing the heat as he falls back asleep.

\----

He imagines it might go like this:

It’s old, she’ll tell him. A long lineage so watered down, so thin and wide spread that maybe everyone has a little myth inside them. _Myth_. Does it surprise you? That day on the beach nothing happened. We were okay. I thought for sure we’d be okay and I’d never have to tell you. You wouldn’t have believed me, would you? You’re far too logical for fairytales. Your body, your studies, your brain too smart for this, but I grew up against the water’s edge. _I was there_. But you, but Benjamin –

But Isaac? he’ll ask. He used to tell me stories.

That’s all Isaac was, James. Just stories.

But you? Are you…? Grandma Jordan?

It’s stronger in some more than others.

\----

James arrives at his parent’s house, the place where he was raised since he was six years old. Though it looks small, he knows the capacity of its strengths, remembers the fights and the anger and sadness this home once endured. This place usually brings him comfort, but his hands shake as he pulls the key from the ignition. Everyday his legs feel weaker.

He clambers up the steps and presses firmly on the doorbell, listening to the shuffling inside the home. His mother’s voice rings out as she shouts, “I’ll get it, Charlie!” before the door opens. When she sees her son, her smile lights up as she exclaims, “James! You don’t have to ring the doorbell to your own home. Get in. Come here!”

But he hesitates before stepping in slowly, eyes shifting left and right as he inhales a rattling breath (she knows). “Mom, we need to talk.”

Her smile falters when she says, “Sure honey, anything.”

She used to be so gentle when she tucked him in at night, pulling the covers tightly up to his chin while singing him soothing, quiet songs (about drowning men and... oh oh _oh_ ), but he recalls the nights spent laying awake while waiting for Isaac to come home. He can hear the memory of his mother’s cough, the jagged, exhausting heaves that the children weren’t supposed to hear. “Smoking,” his father warned them. “Smoking will do your mother in.”

When he starts to leave, she remains sitting in her chair, stumbling, “You w-were nev-ver supposed t-t-to know,” between jagged, ugly sounding sobs. Her entire body shakes violently, gasping for air as she twists the tissues between her fingers. Her careful, dainty make-up smears.

He turns back around. “How could I not know? Why now? Why now?”

But she can only shakes her head. _No, no, no_.

James watches in muted silence as her knuckles turn white and her face red from the lack of oxygen. He shakes his head in disbelief. Part of him wants to hate her for hiding this from him. Part of him wants to love her for trying to protect him. Her face stains with tear drops, and stoically, he carries her up to the bathroom and runs her bathwater.

\----

House steals a glance at Wilson over lunch, the dimly lit cafeteria casting shadows across the walls and people. He can’t tell if the poor illumination alludes to the dark circles beneath Wilson’s eyes, but what he sees makes his eyes narrow – his fingers twitch. Wilson’s face looks sunken in and his skin sallow. The jut of his chin looks narrower and the blue-collared shirt hangs loosely from his shoulders and elbows.

“You should eat more,” House suggests while stealing a fry off of his friend’s untouched plate. “More meat, it’s good for the heart.”

Wilson barely rolls his eyes, but House sees it. “Has Rick from cardiology been giving you advice again? I knew he never liked you,” he responds half-heartedly.

“Damn! I traded information with him on that nurse from Radiology. Uh, what’s her face...?”

Wilson tilts his head and from this angle, House can definitely see gauntness of his cheekbones. His hair hangs limp and clings against his forehead. “Could you elaborate? There are at least sixteen nurses hired in the radiology department,” he says, coughing slightly. He tugs slightly at the collar of his shirt.

“And you would know this how...?”

Wilson shoots a pointed look in House’s direction as they walk towards the garbage can with their trays. He snaps, “How would _you_ know about any nurse in radiology?”

“You don’t think I get some?”

“We’ve had this discussion before, House,” Wilson replies, pushing the untouched contents of his tray into the garbage. “Aren’t you broke yet?”

“I don’t have alimony payments; therefore, I can afford sex.”

“Nice logic.”

“Funny how it applies to both of us,” House quips, two steps behind the oncologist.

They exit the cafeteria as Wilson tries avidly to out-walk House without looking obvious, and House knows exactly what he’s doing.

“It’s not going to work,” he says.

“What’s not?” Wilson asks nonchalantly, picking up his pace.

“Getting away from me,” House answers. “Why are you avoiding me? And have you ever heard of make-up?” he jeers, pointedly staring at the dark circles underneath Wilson’s eyes. “Why so tired, Jimmy?”

“Not having this conversation,” Wilson replies, quickening his steps.

“Late nights with those girls in radiology? That must be it. It’s exactly why y –”

“No. _No_ ,” Wilson protests. “Don’t do this. You have no idea!”

“Of course I have no idea!” House explodes. “You’ve been hiding this _thing_ from me ever since that fucking day we got fucking drunk. And yeah, I know you think I didn’t remember, but I do. And... and you’re always asking me to be more patient, and – honest to whatever damned deity you believe in – I tried because it’s you and I didn’t know if I even wanted to know what the hell was going on.” House’s eyes flicker, narrowing as he examines his friend in the light. Wilson’s lips look darker, almost a deep purple – blue. The color blends with the pinkish tint of his skin, but it’s there.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what you did, right?” Wilson snorts sarcastically. “You were patient with me because you care so much. Yeah. You never said anything because you... you probably couldn’t remember whether or not it even _happened_ and wanted me to say something first.”

“So it did happen?” House questions, leaning on his cane heavily.

Wilson turns around slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You don’t even remember. This is pointless. Let me fill you in. We got drunk. You passed out in my bathroom like the idiot you are. End of story.”

“Funny, because what I thought had happened was you were going to tell me why you fucking disappeared for three days, but instead locked yourself in the bathroom until I found you _drowning underwater_.”

“I wasn’t drowning,” Wilson hisses. “And don’t do this here. I’m not having this conversation in the middle of the hallway.” His eyes flicker down the corridor before returning to House. “Don’t.”

“Then _when_?”

“Just... not... Not here,” Wilson sighs, eyes lowering to his polished, brown shoes.

“Not now, you mean,” House answers. “Not ever. You’re running.”

But Wilson softly counters, “No, no. I’m _swimming_ ,” as his eyes close shut.

“You’re _hiding_.”

“Quite the contrary, really,” Wilson says quietly. “I’m finding out more and more.”

House lets out an exasperated sigh. “Care to share?”

“I said, not here.”

House relents, “My office then. _Now._ ” He pushes past Wilson towards the elevator, as Wilson’s head drops to the floor. The oncologist grimaces, tugging his hands out of his pockets. He wrings them together before slowly following after.

\----

House stays late on a Tuesday night with his staff, staring at the whiteboard. The glossy surface reflects the bright lights and a blurry copy of their faces, but says little about a diagnosis. The only sound (beyond the cogwheels spinning in his head) comes from the _tick tock tick tock_ of the clock and rain pounding on the windows.

He listens – it means something, but he can’t tell what.

After two cups of coffee and an artery-clogging cheeseburger (courtesy of Chase – thank you very much), House glances at his watch. It takes him a moment to realize it stopped a half hour ago – stuck on 1:01. He blinks blearily at it before shaking the little face with no success. Stumbling out of his seat, the chair scrapes against the leg of the table, breaking the sleepy silence in the room. Foreman nods in agreement as House mutters something about too much coffee and that urinals are better than friends without really listening at all, lowering his head to the table just as his boss exits the room.

The seventh floor only contains cubicles and offices where most of businessmen work. Patients rarely ever go up there and House favors these bathrooms because they remain vomit free. At so late at night, nobody is left working and the entire hall looks peaceful and calm with only the lightning bolts and roars of thunder to break through the deep quiet. House expects silence.

Instead, he finds a flood.

He can hear a faint rushing sound of running water (first mistaken as rain) just outside the bathroom. Pausing at the door with an ear pressed tightly against the wood, he listens. He hadn’t expected anyone to still be around, but the automatic faucet can be heard running nonstop.

Looking down, a small lake floods from underneath the door and soaks his shoes. House prods the puddle with his cane, watching it expand further and further before pushing open the door and peering inside. At first, he sees only the water, covering every inch of the bathroom, and a flood of amusement runs through him.

And then he spots the culprit, headfirst in one of the overflowing sinks. His pants are soaked to the knee and for a moment, House thinks he’s committing suicide.

He knows those shoes (almost French, _almost_ a liar), and the collar of that shirt grazing the back of _that_ neck, those hands clutching fervently to the edges of the sink (albeit thin and brittle). The water soaks through his socks and up his pants leg as chills race through his spine.Treading through the water of the bathroom, the _slosh, slosh, slosh_ and running faucets muffle his offbeat cadence. He stops when he can reach out and squeeze Wilson’s hand tightly. He startles him but refuses to let go when he responds, head jerking from the water in surprise while instinctively tugging away.

House holds fast against Wilson’s protests, yanking back as the oncologist stumbles to catch his breath. His chest heaves and his heartbeat races even as recognition sets in. Mouth moving wordlessly in a mad panic for breath, his fingers flex against House’s as if grappling for air. House swallows the panic and adrenaline in his throat before grabbing Wilson by a thatch of hair, shoving him face down back into the sink.

He watches as Wilson’s entire body relaxes, hand slackening in his grip. The cotton shirt sticks to the younger man’s wet skin, pulled taut across the bony, malnourished frame, and as House eases James back up from the sink, he steals a glance at his friend’s hand.

“Wilson?” House tests, pressing firmly against one shoulder.

The oncologist lifts his hands as if to say, ‘I’m alright,’ but House doesn’t let go of the hand.

“What’s happening to you?” he demands, twisting Wilson’s wrist until his palm faces downward. They both look at where their hands meet – at the bluish tint beneath Wilson’s fingernails. “Are you... are you _dying_?”

James wants to protest, but instead his chest tightens and his head feels light. He pulls away from House, putting distance between them but loses his footing. His body slams against the wall, shoulders scraping against the tiles as he slides to the floor.

House staggers forward, cautious of the water and his leg and James and _everything_ , whispering again, “Are you dying?” while reaching out a trembling hand.

Wilson turns his head away before crawling, denying the help House offers. Grasping to the sink’s edge, he hoists himself upwards slowly, legs slipping out from underneath him until he’s in an upright position. He coughs and slumps forward against the ceramic as his eyes close warily, and his entire body sags. His frail fingers lose their grip and he plummets back into the overflowing sink.

House tries to steady him as he pulls the heavy weight of Wilson’s shoulders back until they’re repositioned face to face, leaning against the sink.

“James,” House tries to say again, but his friend only shakes his head.

“No,” he rasps out.

“No what?”

“Can’t... _breathe._ ”

“James, this... this thing. I don’t _understand_ ,” House panics.

Wilson shakes his head again. “It’s only—” a cough, “—temporary.”

“What...” House trails off, looking bewildered. “How temporary. You’re... You tell me that you think you’re... you’re a goddamn _fish_ and suddenly I find you suffocating. Just... _No_.”

Wilson hacks, leaning forcefully against the sink. “Yes,” he says exhaustedly.

“Yes _what_?”

His eyes slowly meet House’s. “Yes,” he says more firmly. “I’m... I’m –”

House watches Wilson’s shoulders shake as his chest tightens again. He reaches out to grab him by the shoulders but he backs away.

“I’m _dying_ ,” he rasps, coughing into his sleeve. “I’m _drowning_ , House. In the f-fucking _air_.”

“What do you want me to do?!” House shouts, frightened as Wilson’s shoulders quaver.

“Just—”

\----

He doesn’t bring anything with him to Maine (he doesn’t anticipate leaving), just the clothes on his back which are House’s. A comfortable silence hovers during the plane ride as they travel. They take the red eye, Wilson staring outside the window as House snores softly in the seat ahead of him. Wilson quietly wonders if House has come to terms with what he’s about to do.

They rent a car (some habits never die), and they drift through the countryside looking at the autumn colors. House stays unusually quiet, only turning to glance at Wilson as he drives every now and then. James meets his eyes but never says anything. The low hum of the car eventually lulls House into another sleep, and Wilson is left to the silence and warm colors by himself.

He understands now what his mother loved so dearly about Maine. He can see it in the warm hues of reds and oranges, peeking behind pines and other gathered leaves. A sense of easiness settles into his bones – a sense of relief. The road changes from fresh, new pavement to bumpy and broken blacktop until is finally dissolves into gravel and a fine layer of dust. The road winds onward, passing small forests and towns, leading him to the driveway of an abandoned old home.

James gets out of the car, his fragile fingers quietly shutting the door as House continues to sleep on, unaware. His legs feel a little weak from driving so long (from walking all his life), but he clambers slowly down the driveway to the front of the house. He knows this place even though he’s never visited here before. The home is run down and underappreciated – abandoned – but the old aged mailbox with _Jordan_ carved into it still stands at the front, greeting him like old family.

He brushes his fingertips against the side of the home, against the splintered wood and tall grass. He walks around to the backyard, stopping to look back at the car where House leans into his seat – probably snoring – and James thinks it’s better this way, better knowing House, although supportive, does not understand nor is willing to let this happen. He looks back at the car wistfully.

He shrugs off his jacket and leans over the edge of the cliff above the ocean. The wind brushes against his bare forearms, perpetually cool. He unties his shoelaces and pulls House’s shirt over his head, House’s pants off his hips, coughing into the wind as his chest rattles. He can barely feel his fingers anymore.

It looks exactly how he pictured it, balmy, frigid with dried leaves decorating the shoreline – lost in the waters. The frothy whitecaps look chilly and inviting; the entire scene looks promising to James.

He draws in one final breath and runs.

 

\----  _fin_

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Isaac reads is called [Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fable-of-the-mermaid-and-the-drunks/).


End file.
